


The Odds.

by phantomunmasked



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:36:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomunmasked/pseuds/phantomunmasked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a random thing, given that i don't actually write for the Glee fandom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Odds.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harmony29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harmony29/gifts).



Everybody had told her how much therapy was going to hurt. They had described, in rather graphic detail, (it was the sadistic junior doctors that ran on far too much caffeine and too little sleep for her to truly trust them with her precious recovery) how she was going to have to re-learn how to walk again, how even the simplest act of standing still would feel alien to her. Every muscle, every fibre, every nerve ending, was going to be screaming in pain, and she would wish for nothing more than the sweet oblivion of painkillers, they promised, because even the strongest of wills bent, for the first time, buckled under the sheer pressure of undoing the damage tonnes of steel and sheets of glass had wrought. She had grimly listened, and in her own way she knew she was going to be the one to prove that statement wrong, because she was Quinn Fabray, and she had defied the odds more than once. The parallel bars loomed large above her as she stared at them from her wheelchair. She reached slowly for them. She was feeling lucky again, today. 

As she expected, pain arced its way through her, beads of sweat turning to streams as she pushed herself. She thought back of the happy memories she had, dancing, the only pain in her from the ridiculous shoes that Rachel had insisted they all wear to make them look professional, that would match the dip and curve of their black dresses. Her heart thudded in her ears, insistent, and she stubbornly ignored the startled query of an orderly that had materialised by her side. Agonising step by agonising step she dragged herself forwards, clung to the bars with clammy hands that could no longer feel. Unbidden, her thoughts jumped once more to Rachel, about how dogged the damn girl had been in everything she had done in her life. She would have laughed if she could at her subconscious, bringing Rachel to the fore. Still. It was a welcome distraction, and Quinn found that if she concentrated on remembering just how determined Rachel had been in the past in pushing her way against the odds (and winning, most of the time), the pain didn’t tear at her as much. Rachel’s voice rang through her head, strange memories of all those times in the practice room that Rachel tried to be helpful and encouraging (but came across as rude and obnoxious instead, of course). Quinn gritted her teeth. A few more feet. 

And so it was with great surprise and no small amount of pain that that same voice seemed to have materialised, quite suddenly and quite loudly, right next to her. Hardly daring to believe it Quinn peered through sweat soaked bangs to gaze at the newcomer. So it was her. Before she could muster the breath to ask what exactly Rachel Berry was doing in her physiotherapy room Rachel’s voice rang out, clear, authoritative and obnoxious as it ever had been. 

“Come on, just a few more steps, you can do it.” 

Quinn couldn’t even be bothered to glare as she scowled at her feet. Rachel had never been more irritating than when she was right. The girl kept up a happy stream of uselessly encouraging chatter, and Quinn soon tuned the words themselves out, relying on that familiar cadence (strangely comforting, if only because it reminded her of how much she had come through, and how it could sometimes be useful to be endlessly, stupidly optimistic) as an anchor, imagining it pulling her to the other end of the bars. 

Finally, finally, after what seemed like an endless age of pain and sweat and nearly shed tears, Quinn found herself face to face with her wheelchair once more, and she collapsed gratefully into it, waving the flustered orderly away with a tired hand as she pushed sweaty hair out of her face with her good hand. 

“Well done!”

Ah. So she was still there, then. Quinn sighed, supposing that she should probably thank Rachel in some way for her encouragement. What came forth was weariness, instead. She was tired, so very tired. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate my own personal cheerleader, but what do you want, Rachel?”

There was silence for a while and Quinn could feel the cringe that gripped her companion. Ah. So it was guilt, was it? She sighed again. 

“Rachel. Listen to me. This – “ Quinn gestured with her ruined hand, slightly, and ignored the shocked gasp. 

“- is not your fault. I don’t blame you. Stop blaming yourself.”  
“But-“  
“No. Enough. Thank you for your help today. I have been told that no one has ever done that, not so quickly. So thank you for helping to speed my recovery, I suppose. Could you help me back to my room, please?”

Quinn made sure to modulate her voice that her tone was flat, emotionless. She could not, would not deal with Rachel’s guilt complex. Not now; she was far too drained for that, and much as it galled her to admit it the doctors’ prediction about the pain medication was right. Rachel said nothing to that, hurriedly scrabbling to do as Quinn asked. The journey back to her room was silent, and Quinn tried not to let how uncomfortable the lack of chatter made her bother her. 

When she was finally back in bed and given the correct amount of pain medication (along with a strong admonishment from her senior doctor, the one that really cared and that Quinn thought she wouldn’t have minded having as a mother, sometimes), Quinn found her hand being held in warm hands. She tried to smile, but found herself slipping quite amicably towards sleep. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Rachel’s whisper was raw, and unbearably quiet. Languid, and quite happy to let herself be truly honest now that pain was but a distant memory, Quinn gave Rachel’s hand a quick squeeze, and answered. 

“You are forgiven.”

Rachel’s tears had been a bit much, then, as Quinn let sleep take her, Rachel weeping at her bedside. Let Rachel deal with her own fears, her own sorrow. Quinn would make a comeback; she would recover, in time, through her will and with Rachel’s help. 

She was, after all, Quinn Fabray, and she always beat the odds.


End file.
